


we’re pretty and sick

by postcardmystery



Category: Revenge (TV)
Genre: Biphobia, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after making his first billion, he’s ruined ten senators, four business moguls, and a high court judge. He didn’t fuck them all, but not for lack of trying. He’s young and he’s bored and there’s so much more to burn. He never turns his phone off, smirks, moves on and on and on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we’re pretty and sick

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for violence and biphobia.

“So you’re gay,” his MIT roommate had said, after he’d caught a glimpse of Nolan’s slow smirk at a dark, dark party, and Nolan’d paused that bit too long, blinked that bit too much, his hands gripping, instinctive, the back of his chair, and Nolan had swallowed (his pride, his fear, every bit of himself—) and swallowed and swallowed, said, “No.”

It wasn’t a lie, he told himself. He told himself every day for four years.

He knew the fact that it wasn’t didn’t make it any less of a lie.

 

 

“Be nice,” David had said, bruises at Nolan’s wrists purpled and mottled and not made by himself, a dozen numbers in his phone that should never have got there, a box he couldn’t wait to climb out of wrapped around his own mind. He’d smiled through the glass, David’s skin much too pale against the orange of his prison uniform, and pulled his shit together, smiling and his stomach roiling and playing the part for the thousandth, thousandth time.

“Why do I need a PR team to tell me that I’ll be a PR disaster?” said Nolan, “Have you met me?”

“Promise me you’ll stop telling journalists about the Kinsey Report,” said David, and Nolan snorted, said, “Sometimes, in order to elucidate my sexuality for the wider American public—”

“They don’t need to know the bit about the chickens, Nolan,” said David, disapproving but charmed with it, and Nolan had laughed, real and sharp and sudden, and every time he remembers it, he’s grateful that David’s eyes were kind.

 

 

They told him to throw parties, so he did. He turned the music up so loud nobody could talk, spiked the cocktails with absinthe, insulted the guests to their faces. He fucked busboys in coat-rooms and brought alt porn stars as his date. (Two person tag-teams have always been his favourites.) He filmed every single one, and mysteriously the most scandalous footage always ended up online.

Six years after making his first billion, he’s ruined ten senators, four business moguls, and a high court judge. He didn’t fuck them all, but not for lack of trying. He’s young and he’s bored and there’s so much more to burn. He never turns his phone off, smirks, moves on and on and on.

 

 

“You’re banned from the RNC,” says his PR rep, four days before he meets Emily Thorne.

“They can’t ban me,” he says, “I donated six million dollars to Mitt Romney’s presidential campaign. Family values! Labradors! Auto-erotic asphyxiation in hotel rooms!”

“Mr Ross,” says his PR rep, wearily, “Please tell me that isn’t on tape.”

“That’s between you and your internet service provider,” says Nolan, and hangs up.

 

 

“Him?” says Nolan, and Emily nods, says, “Sex scandal, preferably.”

“I won’t get near him wearing this,” says Nolan, smoothing down the lapel of his jacket, fingers hovering over its gold trim, “But happily I won’t need to. Last Christmas. You’ll like it. It involves a  _whip_.”

“Have you had sex with everybody in this room?” and Nolan shrugs, says, “Leave, and, well. Yes.”

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive,” says Emily, sipping her champagne, and Nolan grins, says, “Oh, definitely. I keep a chart of my sex scandals. I’ll email it to you later.”

 

 

“Look, I won’t get blood on the carpet,” says Nolan, and Emily drags him inside, slams her front door shut, says, “Shut up. Put your head forward. Who was it?”

“Apparently Conrad is starting to rub off on young Daniel. He’s not quite as liberal as he used to be,” says Nolan, and Emily breathes in sharply, says, “You know that—”

“We are going to bury the Grayson heir apparent in a river of shit,” says Nolan, wiping his hand down the front of his polo shirt, “Yes. I know. Anyway, victory wasn’t  _entirely_  his, babe, don’t worry about it.”

“Oh?” says Emily, tipping Nolan’s head back and wiping the blood of his face, and Nolan shudders, lets his voice turn nasty, says, “He stopped hitting me because I told him it was turning me on.”

“Was it?” says Emily, light and dark and cunning all at once, and he meets her eyes, smirks, says, “Well. Not  _much_.”

 

 

“You could be just as dangerous an enemy as any one of them?” says Emily, daring and lovely, and Nolan presses a key, straightens a tie picked to match Emily’s carnation pink dress, smirks fit to bust, says, “Oh, Ems. You have  _no_  idea.”


End file.
